


The Singing Sea

by splkespiegel



Category: Cowboy Bebop
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 17:46:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5014108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/splkespiegel/pseuds/splkespiegel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years ago, in another life, Spike had played the saxophone in his free time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Singing Sea

No matter what city he went to or what bounty head he was hunting down, Spike always seemed to find himself sitting in a bar. Jet had asked him about it once, why he gravitated towards those little hole-in-the-wall places where the drinks were bad and the patrons worse, and he’d told him that he just couldn’t pass up a cheap drink.

The truth was, Spike didn’t even like to drink all that much. He would drink in a social situation, maybe, but he rarely drank on his own and hated the feeling of being drunk, of not being totally in control of himself.

No, he went to bars for the music.

Even the worst bar usually had someone playing something. Spike loved the sax players the most. No matter how stale the air or how overly sour the whiskey sour he’d ordered to seem less suspicious was, he couldn’t feel more at ease than when he was sitting by the stage, cigarette in hand, letting the sound of a reedy sax roll over him.

Years ago, in another life, he’d played the saxophone in his free time. He liked to think he was decent at it, and even wrote a few songs himself. He still had his sax, sitting in its case underneath his bed. He hadn’t touched it in a long time, of course – he was just too busy now.

Spike snapped himself out of his thoughts as he noticed the bounty head he was tracking move to leave the bar. He pushed his untouched whiskey sour and a few woolongs across the counter to follow behind him. As he followed the bounty head into an alleyway and pulled his Jericho from its holster, he decided he might as well break out his sax later that night, if only to see if he could still play the thing.

\--

As Spike pulled the case out from under his bed, he felt it again. The old spark, the urge to play something, anything at all. Slowly, reverently, he opened the case and pulled his saxophone out. It was a real beauty, if he did say so himself – it was an alto, silver plated, and by far the one thing he owned that he had taken such good care of. It had been a gift from his mother for his 15th birthday, two years before he left home and got tangled up in the Red Dragon. He adjusted the mouthpiece and belted out a few experimental notes. It still sounded as great as it had ten years ago, and he couldn’t suppress a smile.

He ran through a list of songs in his head, searching for the perfect one to play. He wasn’t exactly in the mood for anything too energetic. An idea flitted through his head and a woman’s name came to his lips, but he forced them away almost immediately. That was the one song he couldn’t play, the one song that he could never play again.

There was one song, though, something that felt right. He’d written it when he was still learning to play, but it was one of his favorites. He’d called it The Singing Sea, a bit of a sappy name, perhaps, but still one he was fond of.

He stood from his bed and let the notes flow out of him. It still came as naturally as it did when he had first written it, as if he’d been playing this song his whole life. Through the haze he wondered why he had waited so long to do this when it was one of the few things he truly loved to do.

Spike faltered when he heard a knock on his door. He had half a mind to work himself up to snap at whoever had interrupted him, but when the door cracked open to reveal Jet standing in the hall, he simmered down.

“Didn’t know you could play such a nice blues sax,” Jet chuckled. “In fact, I didn’t know you could play anything at all.”

Spike hummed. “There’s lots’a things you don’t know about me.”

Jet closed the door behind him and sat at the foot of Spike’s bed. “What was that song called?” He asked, leaning back on his hands.

“The Singing Sea.” Spike smiled, cradling his sax against his side. “Wrote it a long time ago.”

“I like it.” Jet said, staring at the instrument. “The song and the sax. When’d you learn to play, anyway?”

 “Years ago.” Spike laughed, lost for a moment in memories of meeting old partners, creating failed groups, playing in smoky bars in smoky cities on smoky little satellites drifting through space.

“Hey, if you don’t mind…” Jet said, trailing off at the end. “Could you keep playing that song?”

“My pleasure.” Spike grinned, bringing the mouthpiece to his lips. He picked back up where he left off, the phantom sounds of absent drums and vocals playing along with him in his mind, while Jet sat back and enjoyed the show.


End file.
